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‘James is married now—’
‘Yes, but your brother’s wife has managed to produce just one, tiny girl in three years. Do you not think you should make some attempt at respectability? You need a wife yourself, William. Not some unending string of…of women.’
‘You’ve been reading the scandal sheets again.’
‘I’m not the only one. Your misdeeds have been widely reported for years, and you now have the most appalling reputation. I’m not even certain anyone would marry you.’
He closed his eyes momentarily, searching for patience, reminding himself that he didn’t really dislike Henrietta. Bossy she might be, but she did mean well. ‘Listen, Henny, I don’t gamble and I haven’t had a mistress in months, not that it’s your business. So let’s speak of something else.’
She backed off reluctantly. ‘You are in a foul mood.’
‘And you’ve done everything in your power to make it worse.’
She sighed, looking around the room in search of another topic of conversation. Her gaze settled on the letter next to him. ‘But then why, I wonder, are you so put out this morning? Have you received bad news?’
He looked at the letter, too. The last thing he wanted was to give her another reason to interfere in his life, but then again, he wanted to change the subject. Besides, he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with the child when she arrived in less than a day. All three of Henrietta’s brats were girls; she might be able to help him.
He rose to hand her the letter, sure that he’d eventually regret doing so. ‘I suppose it is rather bad news.’
She started reading, but only got about halfway down the page before looking up with some alarm. ‘I don’t understand at all. Who’s Mary Weston-Burke?’
‘My goddaughter. Arthur Weston-Burke’s only child.’
She laid the letter down, knitting her brow. ‘Your school friend? He died a few months ago, did he not?’
‘Yes, and she became my ward.’
Henrietta raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘You didn’t tell me that.’
He was already beginning to wish he hadn’t shown her the letter. He returned to the sofa, feeling defensive. ‘No, well, I didn’t think it would come to anything. She’s been at school the whole time—’
‘You didn’t assume she’d be at school for ever, did you?’
He frowned. ‘I thought I’d worry about what to do with her next when the need arose. Frankly, I assumed she’d be at school for a few more years at least. She’s only twelve.’
She shook her head disapprovingly. ‘Hasn’t she any other family? I cannot imagine why you’ve been selected for this task. I can’t think of anyone more unsuited. You know nothing about children.’
‘My nieces adore me.’
Henrietta snorted. ‘That’s because you spoil them. You’re far too soft-hearted.’
‘I’m not soft-hearted at all,’ Will protested. He didn’t think he was, either. He was a rake of the first order, at least by repute. But maybe she was right, and he was losing his touch. Maybe that’s why he’d given his watch to a woebegone thief with big violet eyes.
‘I don’t think Arthur would have asked me to be her guardian,’ he continued, ‘except his entire immediate family lives in India. The only reason he ended up in England was because he was sent here for school. And, I suppose he knew I’d the funds to support her.’
Henrietta was looking increasingly concerned. ‘What about the girl’s mother’s side of the family?’
‘Her mother died about ten years ago, and she came from a rather unfortunate background. Father was some kind of a wastrel, and they haven’t two farthings to rub together. It isn’t an option.’
‘But there must be someone! I can’t believe she’s no suitable relations. Surely there’s a beneficent aunt lurking about somewhere.’
Will mulled over the possibility. ‘Arthur had a sister, but she’s in India with her own family, I think. Obviously she was too far away to attend the funeral, or I’d have enquired.’
That information brightened Henrietta slightly. ‘Maybe she’ll take the child. Write to her today. How long would it take a letter to reach India?’
Will thought of the scrawny, unloved girl. It didn’t seem right to plan her departure before she’d even arrived. ‘By the time word reached her, I’m sure another school will have agreed to take her.’
Henrietta brandished the letter. ‘Really? I wish you luck convincing another school to take her. It says here that she cut off Amelia Fitzgerald’s hair.’
He sighed. ‘Apparently.’
‘Your lack of concern is most alarming, William, considering you plan to allow this assassin into your home. I know the Fitzgeralds vaguely. They’re a most respectable family, and Amelia has an angelic head of golden curls.’
Will thought of Mary, who he’d met just a few times. Tall, plain and quiet—not someone for whom the adjective ‘angelic’ would ever be used. ‘She had, you mean.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The curls. And I’m sure there’s an explanation for this. Perhaps Amelia asked her to do it. Maybe short hair is becoming—’
‘Becoming what, fashionable amongst twelve-year-old girls? I assure you, William, it is not. You’ll have to take Miss Weston-Burke firmly in hand.’
He’d always bristled at authority, and he didn’t like the domineering tone of her advice. ‘Unlike you, Henny, I am not a natural despot. I met this Miss Hume a few days ago, and she’s quite fierce, so you see a firm hand doesn’t always work.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s supposed to be an excellent school.’
‘Yes, well, apparently Mary didn’t think so.’
Henrietta realised he wouldn’t be persuaded. ‘If the girl is this ill mannered now, I shudder to think how’ll she’ll behave after spending the summer with you. You’ll have to hire a governess immediately. You’ll have to change your entire way of life.’
‘Have you finished?’
‘Quite.’
‘Then you’ll help me, won’t you?’
‘Help?’She cocked her head slightly, ever sensitive to the rise and fall of the upper hand. ‘How can I possibly help you?’
Will suppressed a sigh, knowing he was temporarily at her mercy. ‘Well, as you pointed out, I don’t know anything about children.’
‘Yes, and if you promise to come tonight I’ll consider advising you on occasion. I’ll certainly place an advertisement for a governess for you—I know just the journal. And, if you dance with Vanessa Lytton, I might even offer to select your governess.’
‘I’ll have some say, Hen, as I’ll be paying her salary.’
‘You don’t trust me?’
‘Not in the least.’
‘Very well—I will winnow the list down for you, and you can make the final decision. It will save you hours of tedium.’
Since Will had no desire to interview scores of potential governesses—and, for that matter, to spend another minute with his cousin—he agreed instantly. ‘It’s settled. You’ve won.’ But then he thought it wise to ask, ‘By the by, who’s Vanessa Lytton?’
Henrietta smiled. ‘She’s a definite prospect, I should say. Well mannered and exceptionally pretty. Accomplished, too.’
‘And no doubt well connected.’
‘The granddaughter of a marquess. Or would you rather marry some farmer’s daughter?’
He didn’t want to marry anyone, but he knew she had a point. His own parents’ marriage had been convenient and for mutual benefit, but not for love—although he’d never actually witnessed their relationship firsthand. His mother had died giving birth to him, and his father remarried a year later, this time to a woman he’d been in love with for many years. Will loved his stepmother, too; she was beautiful, intelligent and charming. But she’d also been an actress, and her background had caused a serious rupture in their family. The marriage had led, if he wanted to be brutally honest, to a great deal of unhappiness for many people.
So when it was his turn to marry, he would be more practical about things.
Luckily, he didn’t have to admit to his cousin that she was right. She’d already risen and was arming herself with her parasol. He rose, too, out of courtesy.
‘You’re leaving?’
She nodded. ‘I have to prepare for tonight. It takes me longer these days to look presentable. I’d avoid these dratted débutante balls all together if it weren’t for you. They make me feel practically ancient.’
‘And if it weren’t for you, then I wouldn’t go, either. It’s most illogical of us. Perhaps we should reconsider?’
The look she gave him as she exited the room was answer enough. He would see her later that evening or pay the consequences.
Isabelle’s tiny room was on the top floor of Hannah Standish’s boarding house. It measured about seven feet by eight and the ceiling sloped sharply, making it suitable only for leprechauns and sundry members of the fairy world. The only personal items it contained were three sturdy, leather bags—stuffed full of clothes and books—and a plaster bust of Athena, given to her by her father. Other than that, it contained a bed, a dresser and a threadbare but clean carpet. A child’s sampler, worked in violent red letters, hung above the small fireplace; FEAR HIM, it said, followed by the entire alphabet and all the numbers from one to ten.
That was the last advice she needed at the moment. She was terrified. What would—could—she do? She probably already faced debtors’ prison, and now she was a thief, too, through no fault of her own.
From her tense position on the bed she could see William Stanton’s watch, gleaming and golden on top of her dresser—proof that yesterday wasn’t just a bad dream. She couldn’t help wishing she’d begun her criminal career in less expensive style.
She could sell it, of course. She needed money, and it was probably worth more than she could earn in a decade as a governess. But selling it would only make things worse. Then she’d be an actual, rather than merely an accidental, thief. She shouldn’t even entertain the thought. She’d think instead about what she could do to improve her situation.
Like finding employment, and since she had an interview later that afternoon, she felt justifiably sanguine. True, she’d no real skills, nor any history of employment. But at least she was well educated, thanks to her father’s tutelage. A good education and a large debt were practically the only possessions she had left. Her father was responsible for both counts, in fact.
He’d raised her alone since she was six, when her mother died; he’d been, as far as she could surmise, unable to cope with the responsibilities of parenthood without a wife to guide him. He led a rarefied life as a dealer of ancient sculpture, and she…well, she was left feeling rather inconsequential most of the time, if not downright inconvenient. So, she’d learned to be interested in his interests. She could speak intelligently about Roman sculpture, Etruscan painting and Attic vases. She could read Greek and Latin, as well as French and German. In retrospect, it probably hadn’t been much of a childhood. She certainly didn’t love these topics in the same way he did, but she’d always hoped her aptitude might make him love her, as well. At least they’d have something to talk about together.
Her early memories of her father were few. Before the war made maritime travel impossible, he’d gone to the Continent for months on end, and it was only when he returned from a long voyage that she realised he did care about her, despite his awkward way of showing it. He always brought back the most exotic treasures: mysterious fragments of crumbling buildings, bits of sculpture, and, when she was seven, a beautiful, carved marble goddess taller than she. Even Napoleon hadn’t impeded his purchases; when hostilities prevented him from travelling, he’d had large numbers of artefacts shipped to London, sight unseen. He’d be so pleased with himself when they arrived that he’d tell her stories about each object, stories that lasted well beyond her bedtime: about Daphne turning into a tree to escape Apollo’s embrace, about Diana turning Actaeon into a stag. However, her father’s finds had filled the corners of their large house only until they found a buyer, and everything inevitably did. His ledgers read like a guide to the great and good, and he became renowned in his own right. George III had even created him Sir Walter Thomas—an ultimately useless title that had died with him three years ago.
Unfortunately, it turned out that much of what he’d sold to those many fine gentlemen wasn’t what he claimed it to be. She’d learned that soon after his death, when Sebastian Cowes first came to call. He’d bought many objects from her father over the years, and when he looked at her his pale, liquid gaze had glided unpleasantly over her body, as if she, too, were for sale. She had disliked him immediately, but she’d still endeavoured to be polite…even when he had imparted terrible news.
He’d just returned from Rome, he told her, where he’d seen a marble bust in a shop window. On closer inspection he realised it matched one he’d bought from her father, down to every chip and crack. When he queried the shop owner, Signor Ricci, he learned that the bust wasn’t old at all, but rather had been made by Signor Ricci himself in the antique style. Ricci claimed to know her father well, although apparently he’d visited the shop only once, and that many years ago, just as hostilities were breaking out in earnest with France. He’d arranged for Signor Ricci to send several large statues to England—a request he was to make repeatedly by correspondence throughout the course of the war. Only Ricci had not known that her father had sold his replications in England for many times his own asking price as genuine artefacts. Neither had Isabelle.
Sebastian Cowes wanted his money back, and she agreed that he should have it. The problem was, she didn’t have much money to give him. She was shocked when he showed her the receipts for his purchases. Where had all her father’s profits gone? She could only assume he’d used them to fund further travels and further purchases, since all he’d left her was a modest annual income and a good house with a leaky roof.
So she started to sell her possessions—china, dresses, silver, jewellery at first, and then finally her home. These monies, even combined with her inheritance, had covered only half the debt, and thus she’d ended up in London, looking for work. As if a governess’s meagre salary would help.
She told herself she wasn’t running away. She knew she had to face Mr Cowes sometime…she just wanted to postpone the inevitable. Before she’d left home he’d hinted that they might come to some other arrangement if she couldn’t pay him. She wasn’t certain what he meant by that, but she sensed she wouldn’t like it.
She also had to accept that he wasn’t the only man her father had swindled. She’d examined his books carefully. He’d meticulously recorded the sources from which he’d acquired every object, as well as each object’s eventual buyer. Nearly everything he had sold during the last fifteen years of his working life had come from Signor Ricci. Luckily, those items had been dispersed to only eleven buyers, but each of them had spent a fortune. If anyone else discovered the secret, she’d be ruined. Out of malice, Mr Cowes might start contacting her father’s other clients—and since the world of collectors wasn’t very big, he could easily determine who they were. How could she be certain that he wouldn’t tell them?
It would be a disaster, and now she’d nothing left to sell—nothing that anyone wanted, anyway. She needed her remaining clothes, and she refused to part with her necklace for less than it was really worth.
She glanced at the gold watch.
No, she couldn’t.
A loud noise interrupted her thoughts. Isabelle rose from her bed to look out the window. Her room faced the narrow mews that ran behind the house, and a rickety cart had just halted by the back door. Samuel, the coal boy, leapt from his perch and began unloading a week’s supply of fuel into the coal chute. He’d leave in a few minutes.
She gave William Stanton’s watch one last, baleful look before sweeping up his sixpence from her dresser and racing down the stairs. Much as she’d like to sell it, she’d have to return it instead. There was a slim chance that Samuel could discover where he lived. He’d been useless when it came to pawnbrokers, but his job must take him all over London. He might be of some help yet.
She slowed when she reached the ground floor, and then tiptoed past the sitting room, not wanting to disturb the pair of spinster sisters who were her fellow lodgers. Miss Standish had introduced them as Respectable Women, and when she’d said this she’d looked suspiciously at Isabelle’s red hair, as if it alone were indecent. They were always in the sitting room and always knitting, like two grey spiders. She couldn’t wait to escape from the oppressive house. Please, let her find a position soon…
She walked faster as she neared the back door. When she stepped outside, Samuel had just finished his job. He was wiping his blackened hands on the front of his apron and preparing to leave.
‘Good morning, Samuel.’
He blushed and mumbled something incomprehensible.
Isabelle fumbled around her pocket for the sixpence. ‘I…I was wondering if you might help me. I, uh…you deliver coal all over town, do you not?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘To lords and ladies, even? In Mayfair and Belgravia?’
He nodded.
‘I’m trying to locate someone. The Earl of Lennox. Do you think you could find his residence?’
He didn’t answer immediately, so she removed the sixpence. ‘I’ll double that if you’re successful.’ She descended the short flight of steps and gave it to him.
He stared at the coin for several seconds. ‘Yes, miss. It won’t take long.’
She wasn’t so sure. He was perfectly respectful, but his mind wasn’t as quick as one might wish. ‘Shall I write down his name?’
‘Can’t read, miss. The Earl of…?’
‘Lennox. William Stanton, Earl of Lennox. Please don’t forget.’
He nodded again and climbed on to his cart. She watched as he jostled down the pitted road, feeling apprehensive. Sixpence meant a lot to her these days. She couldn’t afford to be so generous.
Chapter Four
A fortnight later, Isabelle stood on William Stanton’s doorstep, flanked by fluted, white columns and facing a glossy, black door. The house was so imposing she almost hoped she’d come to the wrong address. Which was silly, since she should be used to grand houses by now. During the two weeks that she’d waited for Samuel to return with his information, she had attended interviews for five governess positions at large houses in Mayfair—although none, perhaps, quite as large as this one.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t been well received at any of those houses, which now only added to her discomfort. She’d actually felt quite optimistic at her first few interviews; she was polite and neat and well spoken, and even though she didn’t know how to be a governess she hoped those qualities would count for something.
But the mothers of Mayfair didn’t see it that way. On one occasion she’d even been turned away before setting foot inside the house, although not before the awful woman who lived there, Mrs Grubb—pronounced groob as Isabelle was mortified to learn—had looked her up and down disapprovingly and said she simply wouldn’t do. Perhaps she appeared to be too young. Maybe it was her dratted red hair again.
At any rate, returning Lord Lennox’s watch could hardly be much worse. She took a deep breath and knocked.
A footman answered promptly. He seemed surprised and confused to see her, as if she were the last person he expected.
